Cam grunted, eyes narrowing.
“I gotta go,” I said, not wanting to discuss the topic further.
“You sure you’re good there?” Cam asked, concern darkening his gaze.
The guy was twenty-nine, and he seemed much older in my mind because he worried so much about me. The groupie thing and losing his house a couple of years ago had made him “rethink his priorities,” he’d told me. He’d said being a good person—and a good friend to me, apparently—sat at the top of his list now.
“I’m cool.”
Cam remained tense.
I cleared my throat, not liking the emotions building in me. “I’ll record that melody and send it to you. But I don’t play the harp—”
“Yet,” Cam said, chuckling.
My cheeks burned. “I don’t play the harp,” I insisted. “So, you’ll have to get someone else to fine-tune that bit.”
“Of course.” He nodded. “It’s not like I expect you to write my songs. You know you’re a lot more to me than anything you can do, right, son?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. I strummed the guitar.
“But I do appreciate what you did tonight.”
“It felt good.”
“Why haven’t you been composing music?”
That was a loaded question. I just…didn’t. Maybe couldn’t was a better response. The only flickers of lyrics or snippets of songs that came at all came when I was texting with Aya or talking with Cam.
I didn’t want to tell him that, so I shrugged.
He sighed. “I’ll be back in town at the end of the week. How about I pick you up? We can head to the studio. Sound good?”
My eyes widened. “Really? Yeah. I’d like that.”
Cam smiled. “I already told Asher about you. He’s stoked.”
“Cool,” I gushed.
I set my guitar in its stand and brushed the hair out of my eyes. “I mean…that’s nifty.”
Cam smirked as he shook his head. “Well, you can meet him sometime if you want. I’m sure he’d like that. You’re close in age to his son.”
At my gulp, Cam guffawed.
I clicked off before I could embarrass myself any more.
I messed around with the melody a little after that, mainly because I had nothing better to do. Aya hadn’t answered my texts for the last couple of days. Much as I hated to admit it, I was mad. Mad and…hurt.
Aya’s messages had helped me navigate my parents’ boozy, mainly silent holidays, as well as their long absences. I’d sent her tons of pictures from that last tour I did with my dad and Lev, and she’d asked lots of questions about the music industry and performing, clearly fascinated by the lifestyle.
That’s so different than my life here, she’d written at one point. I mean, I get the nomadic lifestyle. Mum and I usually move every year or so.
I hadn’t thought about that part of her life—the constant need to make new friends, to start over in a new place. When I asked her about it, she told me she’d stopped trying for deep relationships.
You have me, I wrote. I’ll always be here for you.
Until you get too famous, Superstar. Then you’ll be the one touring, living the life of a nomad.
That had made me smile, and Dad had told me next time Quantum toured—later this coming summer—he’d let me play with him, let me tell the world I’d written the music and lyrics.
“You’ll be a man, Nash. You won’t need me to protect you from the world, then,” he’d said. “But you’re still too young. Give it some time.”
I didn’t want to give it any more time.
Yeah, but I think I’ll love the constant traveling and performing, I’d replied to Aya. It’s what I’m meant to do.
All through our sophomore year, from thousands of miles away, Aya talked me out of skipping school when Lord became an even bigger bullying asshole, and she was the reason I turned in most of my assignments. The year slid past, and I did better than anticipated, and our junior year soon melted into the following spring.
Aya had informed me that she’d read every single one of the books on the school’s list—so I read them, too, to give us something else to talk about. Not that I was bored talking to Aya. I was never bored around her, which was weird because the girls at school talked about nail polish and shoes. All. The. Time.
And that shit was boring.
Not Aya, though. She was real, deep—like the ocean I’d pulled her from. She was also pretty and delicate like the conch shell she’d given me.
I’d never intended to use her as a sounding board. But it was so easy to send a text when I was anxious or upset or my mother was passed out again. And Aya listened.
Or rather, she checked her messages about twice a week and then would shoot back replies to every message I’d sent, in the order I’d sent them.
By now, I’d collected thousands of messages from Aya Aldringham.
How come you don’t mention other friends, Nash? She’d asked in one of her recent ones.
As had become my habit, I answered, not as careful with my words as I used to be. What could Aya do to me? She lived in Nepal. None of the other kids at Holyoke talked to her, and she’d mentioned that her mom now planned to stick around to help the neighboring villages, so ever attending the same school seemed less likely.
Because friends require work, I told her. Being honest. And the world we live in here isn’t about honesty. Or friendship. It’s about taking care of yourself.
I could practically hear the sigh in her response. You’re really selling the city and the hellscape of private school.
It’s not all bad. You’ll have me, I wrote.
Ha.☺ You mean you’ll use me.
I’d never use you, Aya. I know how important trust is.
I hope so. Because I don’t want to be around another guy who lies and cheats and hurts people.
Like your dad? I asked.
And yours.
My dad isn’t that bad.
Really? So he’s not trying to get you to write more songs for him and then freezing you out when you don’t?
He doesn’t freeze me out. He’s just mad that I helped Camden Grace and not him.
So, when was the last time you and your dad hung out?
I clamped my lip between my teeth. That was the thing about Aya. She saw my situation for what it was. I still had this stupidity about wanting to get along with my dad, which would allow me to pretend everything was better than it was.
Sorry, that was unnecessarily mean, Aya typed after I didn’t respond. When does your father leave for his next tour?
Dunno. He hasn’t finished the album, and the execs are breathing down his neck. I think that’s why he’s been so pissed—not just at me, but the world. I totally get why my mom’s not around. She’s trying to flood her liver in an effort to ignore the embarrassment of my dad’s other women.
Is that working?
I snorted before I typed. Considering she’s been ‘on location’ for the past three weeks? Even the media is sure she’s refusing to come home at this point. So no. Not even close.
I guess I’m glad my parents got divorced then.
Yeah. Yeah, that would be better, I wrote.